


In Memoria Veritas Est

by celli-inkblots (thebeespatella)



Category: Fake News RPF, Pundit RPF (US)
Genre: Angst, Blind Character, Blow Jobs, Colbert/Stewart, Community: fakenews_fanfic, Explicit Language, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Sexual Content, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-04-22
Updated: 2009-04-22
Packaged: 2017-11-07 21:35:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/435699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebeespatella/pseuds/celli-inkblots
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Stephen gets in an accident, he needs Jon more than ever as he tries to come to terms with what's happened.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Memoria Veritas Est

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the lgbt_fest, X-posted everywhere - Prompt: #20. “Any fandom, Any character, How a character reconciles their religion or faith and their sexuality or gender.”
> 
> Beta’d by the wonderful shoebox_addict. Thank you so much!

**ira.** (wrath).

It’s early. Too early. Stephen’s head hurts and his body aches and he thinks – God, must’ve been one helluva night. One, two, three, open your eyes. Don’t you have work today?

It is dark when he wakes up. Completely dark. He waits for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. He frowns. It wasn’t going away. It would have to be absolutely void of light for it to stay this dark. Where is he, anyway? This bed doesn’t feel like his own, too thin, too hard. The pillow – he rolls over and smells it. Sharp, antiseptic smell, and he is covered in a thin, thin sheet.

“Hello?” he calls out tentatively. His own voice echoes in the room. Wait, his eyes aren’t really open – there is a strange tightness around the back of his head, and he carefully raises a hand to his eyes, feeling along the rough edges of the cloth. It was a bandage, and he presses his fingers to his face. There are two thick pads over his eyes. “Hello?”

God, he needs to _see_ \- he searches for the knot in the tie, pulling at the threads. There is a creak at the door, and the clatter of footsteps.

“Mr. Colbert?” It is a woman’s voice, soft.

His mouth twists. Great. A probably very pretty woman is watching him struggle with simple bandages – he doesn’t like this feeling of openness. “I can’t get this off, ” he says briskly. “I don’t usually have any trouble getting other things off, but – ”

“No, Mr. Colbert, leave them on, it’s – ” she starts.

“I need to see, I can’t – ”

“No, really, just leave them – ”

He shakes her off rather violently. “I need to see.”

7

“Doctor?”

“I’m busy right now…”

“ He’s taking off the bandages, I can’t stop him – ”

“He’s what?”

“The ones on his eyes, and the IV drip – ”

The doctor runs out of the room.

7

“Mr. Colbert!” Bang and an open door. “You shouldn’t take those off, we don’t yet know – ”

“I have to see – ” he yells back. Arguing. Familiar patterns in this place he’s been thrust into (where is he?).

“Mr. Colbert – ”

The bandages drop, and he has nothing left to say – he opens his eyes and feels the cloth curling against his hand, there’s a vague pain and it’s still dark.

(Anger is always his first reaction, but somehow all he wants to do is cry).

7

They’re sitting together in the room. Evelyn is holding his hand, a surprising gesture. Usually she just sits quietly until someone comes around and questions his sexuality, like that time John Oliver had asked him if he liked his meat rare, leaning in a little too close, that liberal, continental fag. There’s still that sharp clean smell, as always, but he can’t see, he can’t see. Stephen’s finally gotten past the incoherent yelling stage and is now just waiting on the edge.

“You were in an accident,” the doctor says, and Evie chokes back a sob. Usually Stephen would tell her to suck it up and be a man, shit happens, but he just holds her hand tighter. He can’t see. The bandages are back on, but he can’t fool himself anymore (your eyes are just closed). “The car hit yours head-on, you were both making illegal turns off of one-way streets.”

“If you are going to _lecture_ me about my _driving_ , sir – ” Stephen begins, but the doctor cuts him off. He knew he didn’t trust those men of medicine – they restricted free speech!

“You suffered a severe blow to the head,” the doctor says, and Stephen wants to ask just about where he _blew_ his _head_ but decides against it. “We’re not sure, but we think that either you’ve detached your retinas, or you have optic nerve damage…either way, you’re not responsive to light.”

“Can't you fix it?” is Evie’s desperate plea.

“There is surgery, but with the number of other injuries he’s sustained, it would be unsafe, what with the high risk of infection...” The doctor sighs, there is the shift of paper and cloth. “Plus, it’s difficult to truly assess the amount of damage actually done in the accident, because he took the covering off, and that was the only thing really keeping it in place. There may be light damage as well, because your eyes are injured and sensitive.”

“We understand,” Evie says quietly, and Stephen is silent. “If there’s anything – ”

“Of course,” the doctor says abruptly. “But for now…”

“You can’t fix it?” Stephen asks, voice brash and loud to mask the waver.

“No, Mr. Colbert, but – ”

“You can’t fix it?”

“No – ”

“Honey – ”

It all wells up, darkness prickling against his eyes, the helplessness, Evie’s voice (like soft wavelets) on his left, the doctor’s (like broken candy shards) in front of him, itching and scratching at that prickle. He doesn’t even know what they look like, what’s Evie wearing, is the doctor fat? What about that nurse, earlier, _was_ she pretty? Was she pretty? (Because the women, looking at the women in the most obvious way possible, they’re all that matter - and now alone in the dark - ) “What are you talking about? You _read_ , you believe in _facts_ \- aren’t you supposed to be able to fix _everything_?” he spits sarcastically.

“Now, then, Mr. Colbert…” And it’s the _tone_ that fucking sets him off, that sound of condescension and superiority (elitist - ) and Stephen’s hand clenches in the blanket and pulls away from Evie’s.

“If you’re so good,” he shouts, and feels Evie’s hand trying to reclaim his (imagines her worried expression, scrabbling painted fingernails across the sheet, he can feel the smooth enamel). “Why can’t you do anything?”

There’s a stuttered uttered sound from the doctor, and it only further enrages Stephen – if there’s anything he can’t stand, it’s (admitted) incompetence (of people he doesn’t agree with). “FIX ME!” he bellows, and it’s all in desperation.

7

His body heals, but his eyes stay the same – all blackness, not a peek of light – and it’s driving him slowly and surely insane.

He really starts to lose it when he realizes he can’t do anything anymore, doesn’t know where the toilet is, can’t read – he can’t even _read_ anymore. It’s not like he would encourage the Nation to read, books were well-known propagators of the liberal agenda, but still. Can’t read the script anymore, see the TelePrompter can’t do the show anymore. Wouldn’t know where the camera was anyway. He starts to snap at little things - his children barely talk to him now. “Hi, Dad, bye, Dad, see you later Dad.” They always seem to be leaving the house.

7

“The Report has been on hiatus for the past three weeks.” Jon’s voice is tinny over the phone.

“And?” Stephen says defensively. “It’s not like it’s my fault.” Audible, clicky silence with only their breath. “Is it?”

“…No,” Jon says reassuringly. “No, it’s not, but the company does want it back on the air.”

“Well, there’s a reason I haven’t been doing it, Jon. It’s rather self-evident. If they want me to – ”

“No, they’re going to – they’re going to hire someone else,” Jon says softly.

Stephen stands there with the phone, staring into nothing. Images play across his mind, suits, ties, shined shoes and bright lights. “Someone…else?”

“Yes.” All at once he wants to hurl the phone away from him, slam a knife into the cord, kick something, scream. The Report was _his_. It even had his name on it. Say what you will, but he’d _worked_ for that show.

“Stephen, do you…?”

“I don’t care!” he yells into the phone. “I don’t care about the show, do what you want with it. Feed it to a bear, see if – see if it matters.”

“Do you want to come to auditions with me?”

“Jon, are you deaf as well as being a pussy, heretic liberal? I really don’t give a flying – ”

“I was just asking – ”

“Well, I’m just telling you – no! It not like it was completely and utterly my _baby_ , or that I fought for years against the perversions of your show to have it, or – ” And at this point, he needs to let out a shout, a groan, kick the wall. (His foot ends up swishing through thin air and connecting painfully with something he vaguely recognizes as the cupboard).

“All right, all right. I just thought…you might want to have some input, you know, because it was yours, and I still feel like it is. That – that’s all.” Jon’s quiet, almost apologetic, and somehow it stops Stephen, right in the gut. Usually he wouldn’t notice but his hearing’s gotten sharper and evidently his rage is out of use, rusty.

“Fine,” he croaks. “It’s not that I care about the show, Jon, it’s just – just since you seem to want me to go so much.”

“It’s not a replacement,” Jon says firmly.

“Who said anything about me being worried about – ”

“Just wanted to let you know. It’s not a replacement. It never was, and it never will be.”

(Swallow). “Whatever makes you happy, Jon.”

“Really, Stephen. Really – it’s not the same without you and – ”

_Click. Beep. Beep. Beep._

7

“And so Stephen, I’m going to drop the kids off at school and then I have that job interview – ”

Stephen sighs and takes another bite of cereal.

The weeks after he’d gotten out of the hospital, Evie had been growing increasingly – independent. A leader. Figuring out what to do and everything while he still had trouble going to the bathroom by himself. “And if anyone calls while I’m out, just pass the message on to me, you know the one ” – presses a cold phone into his hand – “just press one, I’m on speed dial, you know – ”

“I know what speed dial is,” he snaps.

“All right, Stephen.” God, all their voices sound the same – conciliatory, indulgent, like he’s throwing a tantrum over something stupid. Syrupy and watered-down. “Don’t worry, I – ”

“‘Don’t worry’?” There’s nothing specific but these days he always feels like someone’s hiding things from him, giggling, making light and he can’t stand it. “I can make my own decisions, I’m not _worrying_.”

“Fine, Stephen. I’m sure you can! Whatever makes you – ”

It seizes him as it often does these days, less a steady stream of irritation and more of an explosion. “Stop _MOCKING_ me!” he roars, leaping to his feet, and feels the silence echo throughout the house. A wind chime sprinkles its sound in the background. “I don’t know about you, but I am still not exactly four years old, Evelyn. I know my good looks have been described as boyish, but – ” He stops yelling, memory a stranglehold on his throat. (The mirror was black this morning).

“I’m not mocking you,” Evie says finally. “And if you’re so brilliant, good luck getting anywhere without me.” She snatches up her keys and wordlessly leaves the house. The only way he knows she’s left, without him saying a thing to his children this morning, is with the slam of the door (he hopes in the wind, he needs her).

He spends the day alternately fuming and wanting to sob, but of course the anger takes over as he finds the couch, can’t find the remote, has to walk so slowly to the TV (refuses to crawl), can’t see the anchor, can’t tell what that correspondent looks like. He only has ghosts of memory. His last shout seems to echo around the house as he doesn’t say anything for the rest of the day until Evie comes home. One, two, three, let go, Stephen. But it still sits, a threatening pulse behind his eyes, burning in every vein when he lets it.

(Later, she buries her face into his neck and wraps her arms around him and apologizes. He doesn’t say anything).

 

**superbia. (pride)**

“Don’t you want to get, you know, a guide dog, or something?” Jon’s suggestion is tentative over coffee. They’re sitting outside, it’s rather nice. Evie is still working and the kids are at school.

His first (knee-jerk, as they say) reaction is that he doesn’t need help. “No, of course not, Jon. Animals are secretly and insidiously corrupting the minds of our children, I can’t have that!”

Soft warm breath. “But Stephen…you haven’t left the house on your own in – ”

“I know that!” he says sharply, jerking away from Jon. He’s so damn reactionary, just waiting, waiting, wants some _initiative_ , but he can’t control himself anymore. Sometimes, even his thoughts don’t agree with each other anymore.

“I – ” (You don’t need help, Stephen, you’re a Colbert). “I don’t need help, Jon,” he says confidently. “I’ve got things to do at home, I’ve had tons of projects I’ve been waiting to begin. This is the perfect opportunity to start!”

“Like what?”

Damn it. “Stuff,” he sniffs. “Not anything you’d understand or – care about.”

“Stephen…”

“It’s not that I don’t think I can take proper care of the dog, or anything,” Stephen assures him haughtily. He better make sure Jon doesn’t get the wrong idea. “Or that I think that having the dog would decrease my manliness, you know, that needing an _animal_ to guide me around would be demeaning in any way. It’s not that. Or even that I’m afraid of – of anything. I just don’t need help. I’m sure if it were you, you environmentalist, fact-spreading leftist, you'd get one. And I’d give you the go ahead. But it’s a personal decision, Jon, and you, of all people, should know to respect it.”

“Oh, Stephen.” Jon’s hand is strong yet gentle as it takes his own, and somehow it doesn’t feel remotely gay. His voice is quiet, and Stephen says nothing. “It’s okay, you know.”

“What’s okay? Nothing’s _wrong_ , Jon, I’m just – I’m just – ” He breaks off. “Stop…stop being such a…drama…queen…” It becomes a whisper, soft husk of sound against his throat.

“Okay, Stephen…I…” A short squeeze on his hand, a pat on his knee. He feels the distinct outline of Jon’s fingers against his leg through his khakis (woven cloth against his skin, he can’t tell the color but he hopes he remembers right). “I’ll be around. If you ever need a ride from me, or something…”

“I – ”

Jon’s giggling. “Sorry, that sounded terrible. I’m quite the perverted perpetrator of the gay agenda, aren’t I?” Stephen sits stiffly, with no response. “Well, wait...I got something for you.” He presses a card into Stephen’s hand. It has odd ridges on it that he traces over with his fingers. “It’s a taxi company number, I…” Quiet hesitation, Stephen would call it almost cute if that weren’t the most absurdly flamingly faggotty word in the entire universe. “I sorta carved the numbers in deeper, in case – you know, you can’t read Braille yet. There’s a hole at the top, just so you can differentiate.”

“I’m touched Jon.” Pause. “No, not like that.”

7

“Hey…” Jon sidles up next to him. “Shall we go?”

Stephen can’t help but bristle when Jon takes his elbow, hand at the small of his back, like he’s a sixteen year old debutante queen on a date. “I can _walk_ by my _self_ , Jon – ” And promptly smacks into a door that sounds like metal.

And Jon just steps deftly in front of him, takes his arm again, and Stephen finds himself leaning into Jon’s touch, because this is a place he hasn’t been in a long time, can’t find the outlines of his mental map so easily. It's The Daily Show studio. Jon’s hand at his waist, tentative (that feeling, surging again…!) “Still using that cheap aluminum door?” Stephen asks loudly, footsteps clattering on the floor. “I told you oak was much better.”

“Yeah, for breaking your face,” Jon mutters, and Stephen scowls. But for the most part, Jon has been quiet about it, and that’s what sets this liberal apart from the rest. Stephen thinks. Jon accepts him, doesn’t push him to move or change, doesn’t _need_ to have him concede or break down, and it calms him.

They sit through tape after tape after tape. Stephen usually shakes his head after the first one or two minutes, hears Jon scrabbling notes, checking off the list (“Why didn’t you just pick one at random?” “Don’t you want the best, Stephen?” Silence). There are a few men who have Stephen’s authoritarian bellow down pat, and all of the women sound too much like Erica Hill, and then they turn to the second-to-last tape.

It’s a woman, voice rather low but not loud, not a push or a bellow. He feels Jon’s interest curling out as he sits back. Great. They’re going to have to go through another Maddow wannabe all because Jon thinks they have potential. That man should honestly stop seeing the world through his own little Democratic lens.

“Is she hot?” Stephen asks bluntly.

“Kinda.” Jon’s gum is loud in his mouth. “She…she has your shoulders.”

Stephen frowns. “That’s something you tell my daughter, not some random woman.”

“No, she – she sits in the suit the same way you do, I can’t…I can’t explain it.” Jon shifts. “She has your poise.”

“You’re going to hire her based on her _poise_.”

Jon shrugs. (Shift up, shift down of his shirt against Stephen’s arm). “It’s…it’s a gut feeling?”

“Well, I can’t fucking see it, can I,” Stephen retorts to an insult that was never said. “It’s a woman,” he says, and Jon’s eyes make an almost audible sharp flick over to him.

“And there’s a problem with this?”

Stephen immediately quails. He didn’t really have a _reason_. “It’s just…I never expected – there is no Mama Bear.”

“Well, she has Ann Coulter,” Jon supplies.

“Yeah, but she’s Mama Dog. She’s just a bitch,” Stephen says.

“…True.” He sounds surprised. “Let’s see…name, Sara de Taille. She’s pseudo-French-Irish, just like you.”

“And? Does she have the guts to go through with the mission of keeping the morals of America where they belong?” He pauses. “…Hidden out of sight? It’s a dangerous world out there, Jon. We don’t want to send in some soft-bellied little gentlewoman with no disposition for war.”

Jon chuckles. “Something like that. Listen, Stephen, don’t you want to listen to the rest of the tape - ?”

Suddenly Stephen is very tired. “No – no, if you think she’s good, that’ll be an interesting new show to build.”

(Jon bites his tongue. “It’s only a replacement in the paperwork,” he whispers as he drives Stephen home, Bruce Springsteen’s “Empty Sky” drowning him out.)

“I don’t - _let go, Jon_ \- ” And he watches him totter back to his front door, as quickly as his eyes will allow.

 

**invidia. (envy)**

He can’t help it. Evie warns him not to, but he finds himself seated on the couch with the TV at Comedy Central, dressed for bed and eyes closed. The first thing he notices is the cheering. The cheering is the same. But then the voice, strong but at such a lighter cadence.

“Tonight – Iran agrees to renegotiate the terms of their nuclear agreement with America and the United Nations. Is it just me, or is this Condi Rice’s wet dream? Also, Somali pirates capture American ship crewmembers just off the coast of Africa – is it the economic crisis that’s forcing them to turn to piracy? More importantly, was Jack Sparrow there? We have Lindsay Lohan tonight on the show, with her new book, “Confessions of a Teenage Starlet Queen.” I’ll ask her how it feels to be a reformed homosexual!

Can breathing harm you? We'll find out later. This is The not-so-Colbert Report!”

The theme music hasn’t changed, it’s still that rock-band, patriotic trumpet on crack thing, only he’s sure the picture has changed. To that woman. He doesn’t even fucking know what she looks like, only that her voice is deep and rich and that when she laughs, she sounds hysterical and almost like Jon. He knows her hands are angular and square (they shook once, when they met for a sort-of-meeting. It’s not like he really matters, is it, Jon?). But her eyes, the shape of her mouth – her smile, her serious interviewing face – these things that are so important to the show…he has no idea about those things. And he wants it to be HIM, he wants HIS show back – it’s the fucking COLBERT Report if anybody’s forgotten.

He contents himself with one thing: there was no toss. The toss is something Jon did with him on the very first day, and he hasn’t done it for this girl, and it comforts him.

7

He really, really needs to go somewhere there aren’t people. He never thought he’d feel that. But everyone’s saying, “Did you see this, did you see that, it’s a sort of – blue, rabbit shaped – ” and he doesn’t _know_ , can’t _tell_. And everyone around him can see, asks for the purple this, the jacket she wore yesterday – Stephen doesn’t know unless he’s leaned in to kiss Evie goodbye, which he almost never does. He’s figured out how to shave, but he never tries to part his hair or wear anything more complex than his casual wear – he’d always adjusted his ties by how they fit against his collar in the mirror. Slowly, he supposes he’s getting back somewhere. But every time he hears about a color, a shape, something he should know about but has no idea about (“Maddie bought a new bag, it’s…it’s…”) he just wants to throw himself out the window.

He always feels so – fucking – _exposed_.

It’s not about – it’s not really a jealousy thing, it’s – no…no, it is. He’s envious of other people, of vibrant things, of sight, of the him that could see.

Truth is, he always was envious, of those people whose pieces came together, of those people who didn’t have that tone of discomfort following them around everywhere. He wants that, so badly, everything coming together just right, even the worst of times patching up to be okay, support, being able to connect, all that. Yeah, he wants it – he’s sort of blocked them all out, hasn’t he? But he does want it. Is there anyone who can read that? (Jon, maybe - )

That offness, and it’s wrong, and disgusting, and you’ll never be a real man, Stephen Colbert. You’ll never be anything, you’ll never do anything right. All the right pieces in play, and somehow it’s all falling apart. Like a half-remembered memory, parts coming through clearly and sort of draping themselves around the black holes where there is a void, there is –nothing.

Because you never really fit in, did you, Stephen?

(Thou shalt not covet, sir, thou shalt not covet).

 

**acedia. (sloth)**

It falls on him all of a sudden, one Friday afternoon when he’s sitting by the window and the rain is falling, he’s tracing spider-patterns in the glass, and it occurs to him that he can’t see what shade of gray the sky is, can only strain to know if it’s a falling mist or heavy-droplet rain. That all he knows of rain now is the slick coldness of the window against his fingertips.

And from there, it’s unshakeable. He carries this damn weight with him everywhere, it’s not about the darkness anymore, it’s about him. He’s the one – he’s the one who caused this in the end, isn’t it? He’s the one who took off the stupid bandages, he’s the one who was sitting out in the car outside the studio with a bottle of Forget-Me-Not-(Kinda) (2007 Merlot), burning his throat, stinging his eyes, thinking about –

Well, it was _all_ his fault, and he wallows in the revelation. (Privately, Evie thinks he’s gaining a bit of his old self back, the melodramatic ass he was). He’ll sit up at night leaning out of his window, suburbia spiraling out beneath him, and just revel in the danger, in his pain, in the poetic moonlight shining he imagines is there (why, I’m just like Keats in his dying throes). Wonders about where the line is, turning back to the half-shadowed room. He can place each patch of darkness perfectly – (doesn’t know that Evie’s moved some things around. His mind is frozen in one moment of time, stagnant). And oh, it’s lovely. It’s lovely, this ability to just sit and want to cry and tear himself apart. Because it’s not really about – well, he’s just dealing with the guilt and pain like this because – any – other – way –

 

No, Stephen hasn’t really changed.

7

He starts to think about God a lot, just because it’s next on his angst checklist.

And it surprises him. (Other people would say it scared them, but that’s not a word in Stephen’s vocabulary!) Because now he thinks he can see, see the inflections in people’s voices and recognize them as harsh, dissonant, (sins). The worst thing is, now that he is blind, he can see himself.

“Don’t raise your voice, Maddie!” he yells.

“Don’t throw a tantrum about it, Peter,” he near-whines.

“Evelyn! Why do you do that all the time?” he asks irritably, again.

And of course – the something that’s been haunting him all along, the thing that’s been taking a step with him whenever he takes a step. A shadow. “If any one lie with a man as with a woman, both have committed an abomination, let them be put to death: their blood be upon them. …” Right there next to shellfish in Leviticus, he’s memorized it. Tasted it on his tongue, moved his mouth in rehearsed whispers (muscle memory) when the urge is too great, strained his hands and clenched his teeth with the words blaring in his mind. He tells the world about the truth while he can, when secretly, he’s too weak to resist the gay agenda, and it permeates his brain, and it’s _wrong_ , because it _is_ , and that of course proves that it is completely wrong and revolting. So he kneels down to pray, carpet rough on his knees – and all he asks is why. He just wants to understand, in this case. Some things are absolute – not all of these things are eating him from the inside.

All the hypocrisy tastes like the 2007 wine (the hot tang - ), deep red almost like…blood in the dark. (“Their blood be upon them”). Drip, drip, drip – memory, sacrifice.

 

**avaritia. (greed)**

“Oh, wow, thank you, Stephen.” Evie leans in to kiss him, he can smell the perfume. He smiles at her. “You never wash the dishes.”

“Anything else?” he asks, drying his hands.

“Oh, no…thank you.” He can hear the smile, the gratifying surprise, in his wife’s voice, and lingers with her words as she leaves.

He can’t help but want it all – the attention. When everyone’s eyes are on him, for the right reasons, he’s always felt fulfilled. You’re good enough, Stephen! And now that he doesn’t have anything else in the darkness, he’s busied himself finding new ways. He likes the right reasons.

But what about the wrong reason? That one night? (He hasn’t let himself think about it since it happened). Left, broken in the bathroom after a night of too many drinks, so many years ago. His body had been warm with inebriation and low lights, so when he found himself pressed against the wall, wrists pinned to the grimy plastic and hips pressed to someone else’s, someone he barely knew, he was oddly at ease. Body pressed and mouth claimed, marked, branded by rough kisses and teeth. It felt _so_ right, and he hated every second of it. (You were too drunk to care, Stephen! Don’t worry…)

“What’s your name?” he asks the man between panting groans and thrusts.

“I really don’t care,” the man says. “Suck me off.”

Stephen was – to say the least – rather affronted. He thought if he’d ever entered this sort of – arrangement, predicament, accident, pick your word – he’d be the one to get sucked off. But also, the brash – command, so strong and harsh. “Do you – do you have a condom?” he asked awkwardly instead.

“What the fuck.” He sounded exasperated, words blending together with alcohol. But Stephen – fuck it if he wasn’t _curious_ , if he wasn’t the tiniest bit very, very wondering what it felt like. So he ran his hands over the man’s chest one more time, roaming, absorbing, and then slid down, nervously undoing the snap, zip of his jeans. Pulled them down to reveal a fully erect cock that immediately shoved itself against his mouth, and he almost vomited (not just the alcohol). He steadied himself, realized he had no idea what to do and closed his eyes. He just sucked as hard as he could, took as much as he could in, glasses cutting into the bridge of his nose. A slide here, there, suction, trying to figure out where the hell his tongue was supposed to go –

He almost choked when the man started to ruthlessly thrust into his mouth, letting moans and sighs escape. Stephen was just uncomfortable.

“Yeah, you like that, don’t you, you greedy little whore – you like my cock in your mouth – _so good_ \- suck it – ”

All Stephen could think was “Seriously, you’re not in some cheap porno.”

After a few minutes of jaw-breaking strangeness, there was come all over the back of his throat and he was coughing on his hands and knees on the floor of a men’s restroom while the man tucked himself back in, washed his hands, dried them off, left, black door swinging behind him.

Stephen tried to talk to him afterwards, perhaps to attempt to negotiate a reciprocation, but the man completely ignored him in the bar, once out from under those scrutinizing fluorescent lights.

He didn’t even know his name.

He didn’t get himself checked afterwards because he was too ashamed to. He could be HIV-positive for all he knows. Half-deaf, full-blind and HIV-positive…oh, boy, Colbert, aren’t you a keeper. And somehow that memory always - _always_ gets him off, somehow it’s become the model for all his relationships –

But he hates it so –

He never wants eyes on him in that same way, like he’s something to be fucked and used and wrung out then left to dry. So he gets the eyes in other ways, it used to be his show, and now he does the best he can to do everything Evie asks. He’s done more for his family than he has in a long time. It’s supposed to feel wonderful – but he’s a little guilty, because only he knows why he’s doing it. It’s not because he’s a good person…he just wants the reward at the end, like a dog begging for treats. But the praise feels _so good_ : how can he resist that wonderful warm twist of feeling of approval? So he does things no one else will do, if only to be appreciated for his absurdity. So much pleasure and so much pain, when something goes unnoticed. That feeling, it’s an addiction, he doesn’t just crave or want – he _needs_.

And with Jon, it’s effortless, and _that’s why_ -

 

**gula. (gluttony)**

Well, he supposes it’s keeping in with the trend of being grossly hedonistic, what with those – you know, everything lingering in the background.

It’s just that he needs to take up his time doing other things than thinking. He never thought he’d become one of those people – he’d always liked things, objects, but never really – not so much food. But now he’s enamored with how heightened his senses are. Every bite he takes seems so much more complex, and he can’t stop.

He feels his family’s eyes on him as he takes another bite. They’re uneasy – well, he’s probably been gaining weight, it’s not like he can tell anyway, or that he cares. It tastes so good. And he’s found something that covers the space, even though he’s eaten full to bursting.

He’s always – he’s always kept everything in. With every bite he takes he doesn’t know if it’s keeping it in or letting it out. If he’s letting it out, he wants to congratulate himself. It’s a very clever way to let it out, secretly! Nobody can tell, not even him!

One. Mm, and it’s _so_ good. (Bite, squish against his tongue).

Two. Filling it up, filling up the space. (Waver of the knife in his hand, nearly draws blood as he grasps the wrong part).

Three. Never enough, even when it hurts. (Flavor bland when he reaches the tipping point).

End – dark. (Clatter of silverware against his empty plate, trying to keep it all down).

 

**luxuria. (lust)**

“All right?” Jon said, and that was where it started.

It was a quiet night, Jon sitting there, probably watching him eat, not that Stephen could tell, and hand on Stephen’s arm so he’d know where he was.

Stephen closed his eyes, not that it changed anything. Took himself away from reality for a moment, imagined the scene. Imagined his own voice – “No, Jon” – and Jon’s concerned expression, every nuance committed to memory. And from there, somehow (Stephen skipped the logic, as always) they would end up on the couch (which Stephen knows is six and a half strides away, probably more when they’re tangled together and stumbling, Jon guiding Stephen gently with his hands as he used to, even before, even when Stephen could see where he was going, thank you very much). And then somehow Jon would end up sitting and Stephen would end up on his knees, pulling down those age-worn jeans, Jon’s hands on the side of his head, and he would wait, mouth open, for that first lip-skin contact. And Jon’s fingers would tangle in his hair and push him down, forcing him to take it all, to breathe harshly out of his nose, moan after moan after sigh after hip-thrust and jerk and rut, and then Jon would come in his mouth and he’d swallow for all he was worth.

He jerks off in the shower to that fantasy late one night, standing and trying to figure out how to keep quiet when he’s so successfully manufactured this fantasy, where the hand on his cock is Jon’s and the pitter-patter brutal shower droplets are caresses and fingers and whispers. Loving, taking, caring, marring. (And afterwards, he wraps the towel around himself and feels his way along the wall to under the crucifix in the bedroom, razor in hand. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned” – holds the blade uncertainly and then hates himself for not being strong enough to give it all).

And he _wants_ it, he wants it so badly, almost _violently_ wants it, passionately so. Imagines lips fitting against his perfectly, sliding against his own ( - fills up the hole that was always there, the one that wanted the scratch of unshaven face, hands to match his own and not the smooth cream of lipstick). He’s always closed his eyes when he kissed, from number one (Sarah Wilmore, in grade 9) all the way through until now (shadow of wishes of Jon), so it’s easier – easier that way to pretend he’s just being kissed, forever.

They’re sitting quite close at the table. What the hell is he doing? He raises an arm, following the line of Jon’s shirt, and Jon goes very still. He feels the tight knot of Jon’s shoulder, the raised gooseflesh of his throat, and then slides, very carefully, his hands around to cradle Jon’s head, fingers tangling in the thick hair he knows is iron, steel gray but didn’t know was this soft. Strokes Jon’s temples with his thumbs, remaps his face with his hands instead of his eyes just raking over his features. For instance, he didn’t know – he didn’t know Jon’s eyebrow arched like that naturally, or the way the planes of his face narrowed down to his mouth, lips fuller than he remembered (intake of breath, ebb and flow of a sigh against the inside of his wrist), and he didn’t know about those little wrinkles on the side of Jon’s eyes (flutter shut, eyelash brush against the joint in his forefinger as he traces the eye socket and paints a line down across his jaw). He’s so focused, memorizing each break in Jon’s lips, each dip in his skin, the flush of his pulse against his fingertips ( - one, _one_ , two, _two_ , two, _three_ ). Their knees bump under the table and Stephen jumps away, but Jon catches his wrists. Stephen ends up with an elbow of food, but Jon’s breath ghosts across his face and he doesn’t care and can’t move anyway. They just breathe for a while, breath mingling, Stephen can feel it tingling on his face. Feeling crackles down their arms like lightning strikes, flashes of blue-hotness and then gone. And then a new feeling emerges, a feeling different from wanting to taste those cracked lips, be fucked by those fingers, that tongue, than wanting nothing more than those legs wrapped around his waist. (Those things are easily solved by a cross and stern mantras at midnight).

 

This other feeling…a new feeling – something like – tenderness.

 

And that’s the most dangerous of all.

 

 **animadverto.** **(revelation)**

“Today’s sermon…the Seven Deadly Sins…” Stephen had been only half-listening, more concerned with the way the thin paper of the prayer-book felt, slippery against his hand. But he jerks his head up at those words, because it’s something that’s always fascinated him and he’s always felt guilty at that fascination.

“The Seven Deadly Sins are sins set by God, of course, but that is not all. Of course, God’s word is law – but it is important to understand the reason behind the sins.” It’s a different priest than usual. Nobody’s ever given Stephen reason and religion in one mouthful. “They are sins that will consume you if you pursue any of them too fully – there are obvious repercussions physically for, say, gluttony…” A soft laugh in the congregation. “Or lust.” A louder laugh. Stephen is very, very still. He can feel Peter fidgeting next to him, and lays an uncharacteristically gentle hand on his son’s shoulder.

One. “Pride will isolate you, as will wrath…”

Two. “Greed and envy will take away your respect for other people…”

Three. “Sloth will leave you idle – and we all know that can just lead to no good. Haven’t you noticed, you do the worst things when you’re bored? The original meaning of sloth was not actually laziness, but depression – and allowing self-pity to pervade you. God can save you, if you follow the right path.” Ahh. That’s more like it.

But what – what has he done? What has he _done_?

“Redemption. Redemption is attainable – and there is the beauty. Repent, and all your sins will be absolved.”

He needs to be clean.

 

**redemptor. (redeem)**

It is a bright Saturday morning, and Jon is thinking of taking Nathan and Maggie to the zoo. Tracey hands him the phone with a worried expression on her face. “Hello?”

“Jon?” It’s Evelyn.

“Hi. Is anything – is anything wrong?”

“…Stephen’s missing.”

“ _What_?”

“We woke up and he – he was gone…”

“Do – do you need us to go over?” He gestures to Tracey. “We’ll be over there…”

“Yes, please, I’ve called the police, but – ”

“We’ll be over as soon as we can.”

“…Oh…Jon?”

“Yes?”

“He took the gun.”

“The gun?”

Her voice is like the slick bitter slide of ice. “Sweetness.”

7

He calls the taxi company and takes a cab to church, enjoys the broken hum of the radio. It’s almost comforting. The traffic is light, despite the fact that it’s probably about ten in the morning. A bright, strong ten, he can feel the sun through the cool windowpane. The familiar smoky staleness of a cab. They pull over, wheels crunching on the gravel.

He hands the driver a bill uncertainly. “Keep the change?”

“Naw, man, here” – drops some change into his hand and a couple of crumpled bills. “Need some help?” A pause. There is a rumble of anger in the back of Stephen’s mind. This man, with his – taxi and his slang and his NPR – Stephen - Stephen went to _Dartmouth_ -

“Here.” Door slam, door open, soft tug at his elbow. He might as well. He’s washable, there’s only a few rungs on the ladder between them, right?

The man helps him to the door, and he presses his hand against the door. It is cold. “Thank you,” he says, throat dry.

“No problem, man. Take care.” Back down the steps, leaving Stephen there. He wonders how the man knew he was blind. He still wears his glasses, makes him feel like he has some structure. (Doesn’t know that he looks like an old, sick animal cataracts and blended milk). Tries to smile, holds the gun closer to his heart.

7

“We have no idea where he went.” Evie’s wringing her hands and almost crying, and Tracey’s trying to figure out how to keep the children quiet. The police officer bites his lip. “Does he have a cell phone, anything?”

“He didn’t take it with him.”

“Did you check the calls?” The officer takes the phone, scrolls down. “There’s a cab company…”

“But how would he know the number?”

Jon pauses, closes his eyes with a groan. “Oh, shit.”

7

(Our Father, who art in Heaven)

The doors echo into the emptiness behind him. There’s that scent in the air, of dust and lingering incense and candle wax. His slow footsteps fill up the space for short sharp moments as he approaches the altar, sits slowly on the floor.

“I just…I just want it back.” His words are empty. “Lord, I just…”

(Hallowed be Thy Name).

There’s a voice, a voice.

“Who’s there?”

“It’s Father Jim, Stephen.” He scrabbles backwards, ends up with the corner of a pew (mahogany, he remembers) digging painfully into his back.

“Father?”

“Stephen Colbert…” He says the hard ‘t’. “You haven’t followed the Way, have you?”

“Father, forgive me, for – for I have sinned.” He closes his eyes, a meaningless gesture, and bows his head. His body is almost shivering, pounding with fear. The mere chill of the man’s voice is enough to send a nightmare cloud darkening his mind. Somehow this man’s words have followed him all the way through from his childhood, until it’s his voice he hears when he is tempted. Harsh dissonant chords of prayer and law, cutting away everything but Truth, Light to Light, true God to true God.

“It is not up to me to forgive. “ A long sigh. “But you must be punished, Stephen.”

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

“What do you think is a suitable punishment, Stephen? You know what the Scripture says: ‘And if thy right eye scandalize thee, pluck it out and cast it from thee. For it is expedient for thee that one of thy members should perish, rather than that thy whole body be cast into hell’ – Matthew, five twenty-nine.

(Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done on Earth as it is in Heaven).

There’s a sneer on his face, white face above the black collar. “So what do you think, Stephen?” Cold, stone floor on his knees, face digging into the floor. “What part of you has caused you to sin?”

“All of me.” His whisper raises the dust on the floor, swirls it up his nose.

“Stephen…you must follow the path…”

All of you, all of you – you can’t be redeemed, can you? Your whole self, body and soul and mind all bind together to make you one being, Stephen Colbert. And where are you walking?

7

They get out of the car, slamming the doors behind. Tracey is at home with all the kids, and Jon hates to leave her like this but his heart is pounding and his mind is whirling. The city moves along around them but they seem to be in such a storm – he wishes he could find the eye, if only for a moment. “Officer, is there anything – ”

“We don’t know if anyone lives there, if there is…this might be a hostage situation.” He mumbles something incoherent into the radio, and turns to Jon and Evie. “Look, I would have preferred if you guys hadn’t come.”

“He’s my husband.” Her mouth is set in a firm line, and Jon wonders at the change that’s come over her. He always thought she was this timid, small creature, but no, she is all bone and strength.

“All right, ma’am.” The officer looks at Jon. What’s your excuse? his eyes seem to ask.

“Uh, well…”

Suddenly, a gunshot rings out from the church. “Oh, God…” The police spring into action with all alertness.

_Please, God, if you’re up there…_

7

(Give us this day, our daily bread).

All of you, Stephen…all of you…

“What you have to give is not enough, Stephen.”

His mouth starts to move. “I believe in God the Father, maker of Heaven and Earth, of all things seen and – ” he says it against himself, as a reassurance, lips brushing the stone floor, every dry crack.

A raucous laugh. “Stephen! Stephen, start over, boy. We believe…”

“You don’t believe, you don’t believe – ” In a clear moment he feels the rebellion – who is this man to try dictate what he can and cannot do? He’s nothing more than a – Stephen went to _Dartmouth_ \- bubbling over, fire (wrath). “YOU CAN’T CONTROL ME ANYMORE!” he screams, and he leaps to his feet and shoots, but there is no one there. A gunshot rings out in the church.

(And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us).

(Forgive us, Lord).

7

“I have to go in there – ”

“What’re you, retarded?” Jon is stopped by the officer with a strong accent, it comes out “retah-ded.”

“I don’t care! He’s blind, he – ”

“He _has a gun_ \- ”

“How’s he going to hit me, really? Come on – ”

“No.”

“Officer, I know you’re trained and everything – ”

“Damn straight. Now, sir, stand back, please.”

They’ve drawn their guns. Evie looks at him helplessly, clutches at his arm. “Jon – Jon, what if..,?”

“They’re not going to…” But how can he be sure? He can just see the article tomorrow, a brazen headline in black newsprint, the kind of story that usually ended up on his wrist as he did the crossword, smearing the words.

“Jon – ” He briefly puts an arm around her shoulder with a sigh, then walks forward determinedly.

“Get back – ”

“This is no time for heroics – ”

He keeps walking, presses his hands against the door. It gives. The police can’t do anything, and he slips inside the church.

7

“Hello? Stephen?” There is a scuffle of movement around the front of the church as Stephen turns towards him. He is still holding the smoking gun.

“Jon?” he says, voice almost – small.

“Yeah, it’s me, Stephen. Who – who were you shooting at?” He walks slowly, like he’s approaching a dying, thrashing animal, although Stephen is standing very still. The church is so quiet, and Jon always feels like there is _something_ there, sitting amongst the stained glass light coming down and shadowing the carvings on the wall, turning everything warm. The candles are all out – in the silver holders with all the intricacies, angels and the enormous crucifix in wood and gold, crown of thorns wrapped around the top. The ceiling is high above them, blocking out the vague noises of the outside world.

“Father Jim.”

Jon gaped and stopped, didn’t run. “You – you shot someone?” He can’t help the way his voice tightens at the end. Stephen, oh, Stephen – you can’t have –

“No, he – he wasn’t there! I saw him, I heard him – and – he wasn't there.” Stephen frowns and lowers the gun. “He was the priest – at my childhood church. I thought he died, but…”

“Stephen…” He walks towards him, hands out, and Stephen stares at where his footsteps lie. “Stephen, it’s – why? Why were you…?” Stephen’s face is unreadable, and the gun is loose in his hand, feet apart, body almost limp. His hard-set mouth is slack. Jon is finally standing next to him, so close he can feel the heat (remembers an evening where Stephen’s fingers brushed across his face, pooling heat and rising prickle of anticipation). He puts out a hand. “Stephen – ” (grasps his arm gently).

He sees it for a split second before Stephen hits him in the face, hard, knuckles first and agony crashing bone against bone. The pain cracks through his skull, leaving him reeling, pain that’s almost – almost blinding.

7

Jon _touches_ him, sparking touch against sparking touch, and Stephen aches.

(And lead us not into temptation).

He hits him, terrified, lashing out – he didn’t even – but his hand connects solidly. And he realizes that the wet suddenly on his fingers is blood, thicker than water and smelling of iron as he brings it to his face.

“What the _fuck_ , Stephen?” Jon sounds almost angry, closer to angry than Stephen’s ever pushed him.

“I – I’m sorry,” he says, collapsing down, feeling the blood slip over his fingers (drip, drip, drip). “I – you…you’re always there for me.” (His change clinks onto the floor, settling, more for the collection plate, give it all).

“Yeah, and this really – ”

“You’re always there, you helped me even as I went blind, even when – even when I didn’t agree with you. You gave me my own show, and watched me lose it but you – you always helped me and now…I can’t see you, Jon. I don’t know what you look like anymore, I can only remember – ” He shakes violently, shivering almost, lets the gun fall to the ground before him. “Your smile, your laugh, how you make me feel,” he mutters quickly, but it’s loud in the empty church. “And it’s _wrong_ , and disgusting – and it’s all part of your liberal agenda, I know. I’m not supposed to be like this, I’m a red-blooded, heterosexual American male who loves his wife and kids. And I’ve always loved women, always, just everything. Yes, I have. Their soft curves and wet – ”

“All right, Stephen.” Jon stops him, sounding almost amused. “I – I don’t know what to say.”

“Isn’t this where you laugh manically and debauch me?” Stephen asks sullenly. “Cackle about subduing me and fucking me so hard I won’t remember my own name, or something similar?”

“Whoa, slow down there, Stephen.” Jon’s crouched down onto the floor. “Now, don’t hit me again,” he warns.

Stephen shakes his head. “I won’t!”

He places a hand on Stephen’s back, the other one holding the bridge of his nose to staunch the bleeding. Jon rubs in slow circles, like comforting Nathan after a bad dream. “Stephen, these feelings – they’re all right, don’t…don’t worry about it. Have you always…? You know what, it doesn’t matter. It’s all right to stop _fighting_ , you know, think for yourself and make some decisions.”

And Stephen’s enjoying it, enjoying the warm breath in his ear and the closeness of Jon’s body, the fact that Jon can always make him feel like it really _is_ all right and that there’s nothing wrong with him. Jon makes him feel – whole, fills up the gap food and meaningless sex and shouting never did. Oh, he enjoys it, far, far too much.

But he can’t. He shouldn’t.

He gives Jon the gun, licks his lips. “Shoot me,” he says. “Shoot me dead.”

7

Jon backs away immediately. “No, I – I can’t do that – ”

“Do it, Jon – take the gun – ”

“No.” Jon sighs and looks down at Stephen below him, on his knees, eyes whited out, hair dark across his forehead, light glinting off the glasses he still wears. He would almost look normal, kneeling in front of the cross in his neat button down and pants. But his hands stained with Jon’s blood. “I can’t shoot you, Stephen. You – you’re my friend, if not – ”

“Kill me, or I’ll do it myself.”

7

Stephen…oh, Stephen…you know you want to, you know that it would be so, so easy – just put the barrel to your head…shot! And it’ll all be over. It’ll all disappear, just like that. There’s nothing really anyone can do to stop you…after all, aren’t you worried about it? Don’t you hate what you are, you godless sodomite?

That’s what you are, Stephen. You let that man fuck your mouth like you were a whore. You’ve dreamed of Jon Stewart fucking you until he comes, of him saying things to you in the dark that he’d never even think of. You’ve fantasized – oh, you know exactly what I’m talking about. You know that you wonder what his lips would feel like against yours – you know you care, about every little touch of his hand, every fluttering touch.

You know what you are. It’s up to you to change it all now, Stephen. This’ll really mess up Satan’s plans, now, won’t it? Here he is all ready to send you into Hell, and you just die?

Clever, isn’t it.

(But deliver us from evil).

“Okay,” Jon says, and takes the gun from his hand. Stephen is shaking, shaking. Jon’s a secular Jew, what does he care – he doesn’t have Salvation hanging over his head like a sword. “Okay.” He presses the cold gunmetal to Stephen temple, and the metal almost sighs with release.

7

He takes the gun, and holds it to Stephen’s head, takes a deep breath (the accidents that could happen), then promptly throws it far away, watching it sail over the pews. Stephen begins to rise but Jon pushes him down, letting go of his own nose and pinning Stephen to the floor. “No, listen to me,” he growls. “There is nothing wrong with it. Nothing, do you understand?”

“Jon, you’re just a – ”

“Don’t lecture me,” Jon says, and leans forward, all the way.

7

There are suddenly warm lips on his, a little chapped, a little broken (exactly how you imagined them, Colbert). He wants to protest but it’s almost as though his voice has died in his throat, died except for the little noises he’s making, because it feels so good, like weight is gone from his shoulders. It’s not just about Jon – it’s true. It’s just about the way the hand that cradles the back of his neck is so firm, the way there’s a smear of stubble scraping at his chin, the flat heavy body against his own, devoid of any curves or softness. How he feels good enough because he’s kissing an equal, standing chords in his neck. Jon’s fingers in his hair are gentle and so different.

He lets go. (One, two, three, fall).

He’s kissing Jon back, and there is nothing like it in the world – he’s almost sobbing with relief. He’s blind, but now – now he can see – 

7

It’s been ages since Jon went into the church. Evie can’t bear it any longer. “Officer,” she starts.

“Ma’am, we’re just waiting for – ”

“There hasn’t been a gunshot – don’t you think you could…? In case…?”

He sighs and picks up his radio. “Going in,” he says.

(For the Kingdom, the power, and the glory are yours, now and forever).

The police and Evie barrage into the church, guns out, shouting, lights flashing, only to stop. Evie steps forward. Her husband is in Jon’s arms, face buried in his neck, and for the first time – for the first time in all the years she’s known him, he looks content.

 

(Amen).


End file.
